Blivio The Clown

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The circusclown lit the blowtorch and took it to the bottom of his bare foot, toasting the flesh golden and smelling the preschool delicious.

The children of Mrs. Dolan’s class- sitting in semi-circle- watched in horror as Blivio charred his heel to a blistering crisp, howling in agony and pounding his thigh in futility. Just for a chuckle he reached out and scraped his fingernails across the blackboard- Blivio was funny like that. The heat from the butane torch was melting his face paint, his broad smile dripping upside down his face, the edges of his skullcap warping. He bit his tongue as the blood dribbled onto his white painted chin.

Mrs. Dolan- watching from her desk- wondered if this was the sort of thing that might traumatize young children. Luckily many of them had lost consciousness minutes ago when Blivio had stripped naked, passing around his saggy/fuzzy body for the youngsters to squeeze while he guzzled an economy bottle of Elmer’s Glue. Some of the more sensitive children had started to cry during Blivio’s profanity-powered opening monologue in which the clown had wept about the scarcity of vagina and encouraged random violence toward the elderly.

Blivio was a bold performer, but he would not be asked back to Career Day.